


The poison enters into everything

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, he thought, he should be kinder to Severus.  Merlin knew the boy had never had much kindness in his life, not before Lily, and not much after her either.  But part of that was Severus's own fault--for being cruel to his charges, for refusing to let go of old grudges--for repelling others in a way far more brusque and unpleasant than Albus's, and therefore a great deal more effective.(Chapter two is the backstory behind McGonagall's annual "I’m concerned about Draco Malfoy.")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Leonard Cohen's "Treaty."

He woke, and was in his office, hearing a familiar voice murmur incantations, feeling a wand at his arm, and seeing the Resurrection Stone stare balefully back at him from the cursed ring.

-

It was the first of November, and Severus was in his office. His face was drawn, his eyes sunken, as if drained--as if he’d cried until there were no tears left--and his whole posture collapsed in defeat. He looked, in other words, like any other young man who had discovered grief, who thought that this loss, his first great loss, was greater and more terrible than any other in the history of humankind. 

If asked about it later, Albus would have said that Aberforth's punch did more for him than weeks of sympathetic words, but the truth was he was angry. Angry at James and Lily--and himself--for trusting Sirius. Angry at Severus for believing that one could join a movement that demanded the destruction of Muggle-borns while believing, stupidly, that the one Muggle-born who mattered to him might survive it. Angry at Tom for his selfishness and his cruelty, his refusal to listen, his refusal to be cowed. Angry at himself for not taking action earlier, when there was still a chance to contain him--angry at himself for borrowing the Invisibility Cloak, the Hallow that could have hidden the Potters from Death itself--

Angry that, after everything, it still was not over. "You will honor her sacrifice," he told Severus coldly, so coldly he might as well have hit him.

-

He first noticed Severus at the Sorting Feast, when Lucius Malfoy clapped him on the shoulder. Lucius was one of Horace's favorites--well, the Malfoy family was so well-connected that Albus would have been surprised if one hadn’t been invited to join the Slug Club--and had never lost Slytherin any points, had never been sent to detention, had never, in fact, been any trouble whatsoever, and that, in Albus's opinion, was almost unnatural for a teenage wizard. He had a tendency to defend younger Slytherins, though, swirling his robes about and claiming that other Houses’ prefects were acting out of anti-Slytherin bias. He was entertainingly dramatic, and Albus had already decided to make him Head Boy and congratulate him effusively next year, suspecting that nothing would annoy Lucius more.

But it was that--that clap on the shoulder of a boy whose surname was certainly not one of the Twenty-Eight, who, by the look of him, had little to recommend him, who was staring across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table--that brought the boy to Albus's attention. He wouldn’t, between the war and school concerns, have much attention to spare for Severus until that unfortunate incident with the Shrieking Shack, and by then he'd wonder if it wasn’t already too late.

-

He could feel it when the curse stopped. The pain in his arm receded to a dull throb and then a welcome numbness. He could taste the potion Severus had poured down his throat.

Even as a student, Severus had made a point of inventing countercurses to his own spells, and antidotes to his poisons. Ways to heal the damage he’d done--oh, not enough, not nearly enough, but then, short of tampering with time and reality, nothing was. Another way, Albus thought, in which he differed from Tom Riddle: Tom thought himself invulnerable, invincible, and Tom did not care what happened to anyone else. There was nothing and no one Tom would ever want to heal.

-

In April, after Severus had stopped arguing against it, he said, off-handedly, his face pale and his eyes dark and directed at the forest, away from Albus, "Lucius only joined the Dark Lord to impress Narcissa's family. They didn’t quite believe his commitment. He asked me for the introduction." He was silent for a moment more. "I suppose in a way that makes me responsible for the boy."

Albus made a polite noise before asking who else the Death Eaters had Imperiused in the Ministry. There was nothing really to be discussed when it came to Draco Malfoy. The boy was doomed to failure, doomed generally, and there was no point dwelling on it.

-

The day after, Severus came to him and said, the words spilling out of him and making him sound so young, like the boy he once was, "I don't want to do it."

Albus raised his eyebrows.

"I just saved your life!" And Albus found that he could still taste the golden potion if he tried, although his arm was--for now--blessedly devoid of feeling. "You can't ask me to save it, and then end--"

"I can," he said. "I did."

"You can't," said Severus. "I can't. I've already--and I didn't know what it would mean, I wasn't the one holding the wand--"

It took Albus far too long to realize what Severus was saying, and when he did, he could not contain his surprise. He would not have expected it--would not have believed it. "Severus," he said, gently, but he didn’t know what else to say. It was a great and terrible thing to find yourself loved by someone, and it weighed all the more heavily on Albus, knowing as he did that he did not deserve it. "Lily was cut down in her youth, by a madman, and you hardly bear the blame for that alone." Though he knew Severus was aware of that--he had hated Sirius more than ever, when he thought him the Secret Keeper who had betrayed the Potters, and even after he'd learned the truth, had continued to hate him, now for suggesting they make the switch, that they trust Pettigrew instead. It must have been a comfort. Albus still did not know who cast the curse that killed Ariana--Gellert wrote to him from Nurmengard, and depending on what he wanted, it was either Albus, or it wasn't Albus, it was Aberforth's spell, miscast, bouncing off the furniture, it was Gellert's own incantation, one he hadn't tested properly, it was Gellert who killed her, Gellert's fault, it wasn't Albus, now would Albus please write back--but he knew that there would not have been a fight if he had never brought Gellert into his home. If he hadn’t been so blind to who and what Gellert was.

His fault, then and forever.

He cleared his throat and got to his feet, still a little unsteady from the curse and its cures. He put his hand--his uninjured one--on Severus's shoulder. Severus started at the touch--Albus did not touch much, and knew that there were very few who were likely to touch Severus--but he relaxed into it, and his eyes met Albus's. "I am going to die regardless. And I am asking you to do this as a kindness to me."

Severus averted his gaze. "Yes," he spat. "You have already said. You did not ask what it would be to me."

-

When he told Harry that Tom had chosen to focus on the half-blood child instead of the pureblood one, he felt a pang of conscience, realizing that he had done the very same, all this year, ignoring that Sirius was growing restless, and reckless, inside the Order’s Headquarters as he worried about Harry--and as he worried about Severus.

He’d been worried about Severus--well, almost constantly. But he’d been much more worried that night in the impostor’s office, when he'd glanced at Severus and asked him to return to Voldemort's side, knowing what that would mean, for him, to come face to face with the person--if Tom could still be called a person--who'd killed Lily.

Because he was not worried, for a second, that Severus would be once again seduced by the power and promise of the Dark Arts. No, he'd been worried that Severus would be found out--or that, if the opportunity arose, he would try to kill Voldemort himself. There were still too many Horcruxes intact, and Severus did not, alas, match Tom in power or cunning. But Tom might give him a chance, might think himself safe, because Tom did not understand love and loss. About a life emptying out when someone else left it. About the complete inability to imagine existence without a loved one--to fight for that loved one, to bargain for them, to create a fantasy wherein the Dark Lord might be merciful, wherein a mother might step aside and let her child die before her eyes--to create an elaborate rationale for why things would not, must not, turn out the way reality dictated.

Tom would not understand how much Severus hated him, and would not take steps beyond the usual to protect himself from him--but Severus was so hurt and so furious, he might just try. And Albus dreaded that, day after day, night after night. Severus was worth so much more to them alive, but love--love was so strong and so terrible, and who could tell what it might lead a man to do?

And, as it turned out, Albus need not have worried at all. For Severus, inexplicably, loved him.

And he should have done something to deserve it.

-

And he could have spared some time and thought for Sirius after all. But he could not feel much sympathy for an oldest, brilliant son, chafing against the confines of his family's house. _You are not going to waste here,_ he wanted to tell Sirius: _you are staying alive for a child who loves and depends on you._ But of course he did not want to tell Sirius that. Of course he did not want to tell Sirius anything.

-

When he saw Harry, for the second time, thin and nervous--Hagrid had come back to Albus's office, railing against the Muggles, and all Albus could say was, "I know, but it is necessary"--the Sorting Hat swallowed him up, for what seemed like an eternity, and then, much to Albus's relief, spat him out into Gryffindor.

He watched the boy make his way down to the House table, shying away from the attention, and felt a great deal of relief, and a great deal of regret--and both only grew as the years went by, and Albus saw what a remarkable child he was--and what terrible things he had to face.

And, as he gathered more information on Tom, and what he’d done, what he might have to do.

What he would have to do.

What Albus would have to ask him to do.

-

Sometimes, he thought, he should be kinder to Severus. Merlin knew the boy had never had much kindness in his life, not before Lily, and not much after her either. But part of that was Severus's own fault--for being cruel to his charges, for refusing to let go of old grudges--for repelling others in a way far more brusque and unpleasant than Albus's, and therefore a great deal more effective.

He should be kinder to Severus, he thought. But even if he could, he wasn't sure Severus would welcome it, and for all of Albus's much-touted wisdom, that was not something he knew; that was not something he could teach.

-

He didn't give much thought to Draco Malfoy beyond the occasional and abstract twinge of pity. At the Sorting Feast, he glanced down towards the Slytherin table and saw him--sixteen, slim, blond, full of laughter, full of life--and had to look away again.

Not two weeks later, Minerva was in his office. "I'm concerned about Draco Malfoy," she said.

He'd have taken it more seriously, if they didn't have this conversation at least once a year. The boy was one of her better students, but they weren't particularly close. After all, he was a Slytherin, and she the Head of Gryffindor.

He told her what he told her every year. "Minerva, I appreciate your concerns, but you should be taking them to Professor Snape who is, after all, the Head of his House."

"With all due respect," said Minerva, as she did every year, with less and less respect, "Severus is young. I am not entirely sure he knows what to look for."

"He's sixteen," Albus said wearily. His arm was beginning to hurt again. He'd have to ask Severus for another dose. "They're all trouble at that age."

She gave him a look worthy of her Animagus form, her lips thin and pin and pinched and then she nodded. "I daresay you're right." Albus did not need Legilimency to read, _You're wrong,_ but he could hardly tell her what was truly troubling the boy.

-

Even after Severus had sworn the vow--and Albus would have thought that would make things simpler--he protested, regularly, that he did not want to kill him. That there had to be another way.

And it was this, more than Severus's jealousy over Harry’s lessons, or the centrality of the information to his plans, and the necessity that someone knew enough to carry them out, that caused Albus to tell Severus that a piece of Voldemort's soul had lodged itself in Harry and that, for Tom Riddle to be killed, Harry must die first.

The blank shock and the barely-hidden revulsion it elicited were quite gratifying. Surely now, Severus would have no trouble killing him.

-

He hardly thought of Draco Malfoy at all until the child was almost alone with him at the top of the Astronomy Tower and unwittingly the master of the Elder Wand.

Albus thought that as they stood there--or rather, as Draco stood there, and he slumped there, against the ramparts--that the boy began to waver. That if there had been time, and opportunity, if the Order had come through the barrier instead of the Death Eaters, the boy would have agreed to go into hiding, but it did not matter. The boy would not kill him, and the boy would die. He would go to his death without a stain on his soul--and less likely to interfere with what Harry would have to do, as Tom would hardly let him live long after his failure, which was not failure so much as defiance, and therefore not to be tolerated--and Albus supposed he would have to accept that.

He was also not in a position to do anything more. 

Severus, looking down at Albus with deep lines carved into his face, would not have resigned himself to it so quickly. Some of the anger, some of the hatred, he saw there was for him: this might be the second hardest thing Albus had ever asked him to do. Sharing the truth with Harry would be the first. Albus might have been considered a model Gryffindor, but he knew he would have never had the courage for that.

Albus could not thank him, with all the Death Eaters leering in the background, could not tell him how proud he was of him, but he was. He could not tell him any of the things he wanted to say--had planned to say--and yet, part of him was glad that he had never explained to Severus about the Elder Wand, as Severus pushed Draco out of the way. He did not want to tell him he would not save either of them.


	2. Jubilee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not two weeks later, Minerva was in his office. “I’m concerned about Draco Malfoy,” she said.
> 
> He’d have taken it more seriously, if they didn’t have this conversation at least once a year.
> 
> The backstory with McGonagall and Draco, over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because _Cursed Child_ made me think that despite themselves, Draco Malfoy was one of Minerva McGonagall's favorite students.

"We all think our students are the best," said Pomona, in a tongue-in-cheek impression of Horace but with a kind smile all the same, "but I must admit, Hogwarts hasn't seen the like of Hermione Granger in quite some time."

"Astonishing," Filius seconded, almost dropping his scone. "Truly astonishing. Best in all her classes."

"Not all her classes." Severus, as expected. He'd been a prodigy in his own right, as a student, but hadn't gotten anywhere near this kind of recognition, not when he'd shared a year with Lily Evans, James Potter, and Sirius Black. "She's competent at Potions, but it's not hard to be near the top of the class when half the class is exploding their cauldrons."

"And who would you say is the best in the year?" Minerva asked, perhaps a bit too sharply.

"Nott, or the Ravenclaw Patil," said Severus smoothly, with a nod towards Filius. "It's too early to tell."

If Minerva were going to be entirely honest, and slightly more gracious than she felt like being, she would have confessed that while Hermione was by far her best student in Transfiguration, she had the sneaking suspicion that the Malfoy boy was the most talented at the subject. But it was, as Severus had said, too early to tell, and they did all favor their own houses.

Later, however, she had to admit that he did have a natural talent for Transfiguration, and that it made him a worse student than he would be otherwise. It came to him easily, so he didn't bother with theory, or research, so of course Granger was still top of her class, but after fall term Minerva knew it would be too much of a waste to let him keep coasting along, when he might be able to make real advances to the field, and so she called him in to her office in January to discuss it--well, made him stay behind after one lesson where he'd been particularly inattentive, because she knew he would be more defensive and less receptive if she asked him outright, in front of his friends. There was something about them, the friends, and the way he acted around them, that reminded her of another student, from long ago, though she didn't quite recall which.

"You can do better than this," she told him, after he'd sullenly trailed her to her office and dumped his school bag down on the floor. 

He jerked in surprise, then looked down at his hands. "I wasn't aware I was at risk of failing, Professor," he said. 

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "You're one of my better students. The problem is that, given your abilities, you should be one of my best students."

He glanced up at her and wasn't quick enough to hide the flash of hope behind a studied mask of boredom. 

"You," she told him, "have a talent for this kind of magic, and while every teacher is going to tell you that their branch is the best, Transfiguration truly is a difficult subject for most wizards, and extremely useful and rewarding for those who can master it. But natural talent is not enough: you will need to know theory to make the most of it, and to know theory you must do your homework, and, what is more, pay attention in class."

He winced at that. Funny, she wouldn't have thought him that sensitive to reproaches. "What," he said, "you're going to tell me that if I fail my Transfiguration OWL, I'll never get a good job and I'll starve on the streets?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, but he was smiling a little. "I'm telling you that if you spend more time on research and don't waste your lessons doodling, you just might beat Hermione Granger."

At that, he sat straight up in his chair. "But she always has her nose in a book!"

"Yes, that does seem to be a reliable method for getting high marks," Minerva said, and for a moment she thought she'd gone too far, but there's a flash of amusement on Malfoy's face. "You never do know until you try."

And he did try--she could see it, almost immediately, in his essays, and in his spellwork. She didn't praise him too much, but he seemed quite proud of himself regardless, and it gave him something to show off about to the rest of the Slytherins. "Well," he drawled, after he turned a quill into a butter knife on the third try, "it's not particularly difficult, if you understand what you're doing."

And he did, although he still wasn't doing quite as much research, and that showed, too. She tried to point that out, in remarks on his essays, but nothing quite got that through like the end of term, when she once again told him to see her after class and he went, scowling. 

He'd been more difficult than usual since the night she caught him skulking around the castle, and she realized she hadn't quite apologized for accusing him of lying. He'd truly believed Potter had a dragon, but even so, he should have gone to a teacher with his suspicions, not snuck around on his own, or gotten Longbottom--inadvertently--to do the same. 

And as he peeled away from his group of Slytherins and shuffled into her office, scowling, it reminded her that none of his friends had been with him, that either he hadn't told them or they hadn't gone with him. 

"I wanted to congratulate you," she said. "Your grades have improved remarkably."

He scoffed and kicked his heels under his chair. "Yeah, well, I still didn't beat Granger."

"You came close."

"Who cares about coming close? Who cares if I got the second-highest marks in a subject? Not my-- How many wizards get remembered for being the second best at anything?"

"Winning isn't always the point," she said. "Neither is being famous. Living well, and helping others--". She cut herself off, certain she was losing him. Most first-years didn't care for such things, most Slytherins were too ambitious for it, and he was, after all, a Malfoy. She remembered his parents quite plainly. "If you were so interested in winning, you might have spent more time studying and less time on impressions for your friends."

He scowled and sulked some more, but she supposed if competitiveness had to be the key to developing his talent, she would encourage it. He might choose to make something of himself when he was older, might choose to take a different path than his family's. After all, his mother's sister had, and her cousin had--

No. In the end, Sirius hadn't. They'd only thought he had. 

She stared at the closed door for some time, wondering. Worrying. 

-

He returned the next year without any rededication to his studies, but his standards didn't slip, at least, so she decided not to push him--and, quite frankly, she had other things on her mind, between her duties and dodging Lockhart's bloviating and the fact that the Slytherin Quidditch team now possessed absurdly good brooms. 

And then there was Argus's cat. 

Minerva, of course, remembered Myrtle Warren's death: she'd been in her sixth year, and it had struck terror in the school for a few weeks before Headmaster Dippet insisted the culprit had been caught, and expelled, and the beast vanished. It hadn't exactly restored calm, but things did seem safer, afterwards, when it was confirmed that it wasn't the legendary chamber of secrets, wasn't Slytherin's monster, but a garden variety giant spider. The spider could still kill you, but it was less ominous than thinking that some creature directed by hate was stalking the hallways and that its murders were part of a thousand-year-old plan. 

There weren't any slogans painted on the walls last time. There had only been whispers and rumors, and they had turned out to be wrong. Albus maintained his belief in Hagrid's innocence, but Minerva wasn't quite so sure how innocent it was to bring an Acromantula onto school grounds, and did not in any case like to be reminded of it, of Hagrid's tender-heartedness towards one creature to the potential detriment of so many others. 

But now, whether it really was some mythical monster or not, the Slytherins felt emboldened, and the other students were even more terrified. And Draco Malfoy was not helping matters. 

She'd asked Severus to speak to the Slytherins about their behavior and its impact on other students--on, in fact, students in Slytherin itself. They weren't all purebloods, and while only two or three in the whole house were Muggle-born, many of them were half-bloods, and there were those among the Slytherins who felt those were unworthy too. Perkins looked like she wanted to cry any time her classmates talked about the Heir. 

And Severus had said he'd told them to stop spreading fear needlessly, but it didn't appear to have much of an impact on Malfoy, and so, finally, after winter holidays she called him into her office once again. 

He'd been short-tempered and snappish with his friends Crabbe and Goyle in class, so at least she had an excuse, but he was even more short-tempered and snappish with her. 

She did not offer him any biscuits or tea. 

"There is enough fear going around without you creating more," she said, stiffly. 

"I'm not afraid," he said, lifting his chin up defiantly. His eyes were glittering and his cheeks were pink and he was almost certainly lying. 

"Of course you're not," she said, dryly, "you're a pure-blood, and you think that the monster of Slytherin wouldn't hurt you." He was so _young_ , and so foolish. "You're assuming that this monster is tightly controlled, by someone who could stop it from hurting you--and that's assuming it's even Slytherin's monster in the first place."

"What else would it be?"

She snorted. "Oh, what else would it be if it weren't a thousand-year-old creature with mystical powers, capable of telling blood status at a glance? In the sixteenth century, a Crup with distemper in the dungeons was mistaken for Slytherin's monster, and it wasn't the first time those rumors caused panicked at Hogwarts, and it certainly was not the last. When I was in school, a student died and suddenly anything anyone could talk about was the Chamber of Secrets."

He sat straight up in his chair. "You were there?" he breathed, and she knew she had his full attention. Sometimes he did that in class, when there was a bit of theory, or an impressive demonstration, almost despite himself, and didn't realize it, didn't disengage until the bell had rung. 

"Yes," she said. 

"My father said--" he began. A lot of his sentences began that way. "My father said that it the Chamber of Secrets, last time."

"Your father wasn't even born at the time." Lucius had been one of her more aggravating students, but in a different way to his son: Draco's attempts at nonchalance were a poor imitation of Lucius's composure. "And your grandfather had already left the school, some eight or nine years before. I dare say I know more about it than they would."

"So what do you know about it?"

"As I said, a student died." Warren had been in Hufflepuff, and Minerva hadn't known her well. Still, she remembered the sight of the body being levitated down the corridors. There had been a war going on then, yes, but it had been going on in Europe, far from Britain, far from Hogwarts. For some students, it was the first body they'd ever seen, and Minerva recalled some if the first years bursting into tears as she, a Gryffindor prefect, tried to console them. "No one was entirely sure who or what had done it--there were all sorts of rumors, and there had been reports of something sinister stalking the halls for a few months, and in the end one of the prefects cornered a younger student who'd bought a baby Acromantula as a pet. The Acromantula tried to attack the prefect, then fled into the forest."

"The forest?" said Draco sharply. 

"I'm sure it's long gone," said Minerva. "Hagrid would have mentioned it if there was a giant spider in the forest."

Draco looked like he wanted to dispute that, but couldn't manage it politely and knew better than to try it impolitely in her office. "So it wasn't the Heir, then," he said. "But what if it was, this time?"

"I dare say that after another five years of History of Magic, and if you take Care of Magical Creatures, four years of that, you'll learn that monsters are monsters." Kettleblack didn't bring out the really dangerous creatures until the OWL year. "They really aren't particular when it comes to who they hurt, and I doubt whatever's in the Chamber of Secrets, if it exists, would be much different."

-

It was the screams that drew her to Lupin's classroom. By the time she arrived, most of the students were huddled outside in the hallway, Parkinson still screaming for some reason, Nott telling her to shut up, Zabini looking queasy. Inside the room were Lupin and the three remaining students: Goyle had fainted, Greengrass was crying silently, and Malfoy couldn't take his eyes off an apparition crouched on the floor before him. 

"It's just a Boggart," he was muttering to himself, but his wand hand was unsteady and he was paler than normal. "It's just a Boggart."

It was a spectral figure with hands like spiders bent over a dead unicorn. It had a dark cloak that obscured most of its face, but when it looked up, its chin was wet with silvery unicorn blood and its teeth were needle-sharp. 

"Riddikulus," Minerva snapped. The figure was decked with a red-and-white bib, but no one laughed at it. Lupin stood between it and the boy, and when the Boggart shivered and reformed in the shape of the moon, he forced it back into his trunk. 

"Thank you, Professor Lupin," she said. She would ask him later why he hadn't stepped in himself, although Malfoy's petulant mutter of "I could have done that myself," did go some way to clarifying that. But the ego of a thirteen-year-old boy did not justify mass hysteria. "Mr. Malfoy, if you would come with me to answer some questions concerning that apparition."

He sulked out of the room behind her. "Draco!" gasped Parkinson. "Did you defeat that monster? You're so brave."

"It was a Boggart," said Wilkes, sounding exasperated.

"It was a Boggart that took the form of a horrible monster," said Parksinson, rounding on her, "it's practically the same thing."

They continued squabbling as Minerva led Malfoy off. They were Lupin's students for the hour, and he could deal with them. He'd have less luck than her when it came to Malfoy--he'd only been a teacher for a few days, and she seemed to recall that in his own school days he'd had no control over James Potter or Sirius Black. Not that Draco reminded her particularly of either, but he was no more likely to cooperate for a few kind words and squares of chocolate. 

"Sit," she said, and he did. Away from the spectre he was regaining his confidence, and remembering to favor his right arm. "Malfoy, I suppose you haven't covered it in class yet, but killing a unicorn and drinking its blood is--"

"Evil," said Malfoy, and then looked surprised at himself for saying it. 

She probably did too. "Yes. Unicorn blood can help cure some maladies and prolong life, but to take it you must kill an innocent creature, or be complicit in the act, and the blood comes with a curse. And anyone knowing this who is desperate enough to accept the curse, to kill a unicorn-- You understand, why we need to know where you saw such a thing, so that the person responsible can be apprehended."

"Here," said Draco, quietly. 

"Here?" She repeated. She'd been expecting--well, there were rumors enough about the Malfoy family, and even more about the Blacks. Sirius had escaped, and the Malfoys owned enough land that there must be forests somewhere. Abraxas had purchased a dozen unicorns at one point, declaring in the Prophet that it was a shame so many magical creatures were having their habitats destroyed by Muggles. She'd been so certain--

"Yes," he said, "here! In that detention with Hagrid first year! He thought it was a great lark to take three first-years into the middle of the Forbidden Forest when there was something in there killing unicorns!" His voice broke, and he slumped back into the chair and crossed his arms. She thought he shivered a bit. "And it's probably still out there, I never heard that they caught it."

She found herself mechanically pushing the tin of biscuits toward him. It was almost as good as an apology, but she couldn't make one yet. Interesting, that he hadn't connected the unicorn killer to He Who Must Not Be Named, his presence in the forest to his attempt to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. She debated telling him, but ultimately decided against it: he was a Slytherin, and she imagined how poorly he would take it if anyone found out that the thing that scared him most in the world was the Dark Lord. 

-

"Is that a student?" she asked, horrified, and before she turned him back she knew which one it was, with Potter, Granger and Ron Weasley grouped by Alastor, and Crabbe and Goyle at the other end of the hall, a space between them as the ferret flew through the air. 

She sent Snape a message to send the boy to the hospital wing: she wasn't in the mood to dock points from Slytherin because Malfoy would undoubtedly insist he was fine and it wasn't going to do him any good to haul him off in front of his peers. Snape didn't argue, which was a relief. Normally he was just as dismissive of her concerns when it came to the boy as Albus was, but Alastor had attacked him, and even if Snape hadn't been concerned for the boy's physical well-being, none of the teachers wanted a repeat of last year, with Lucius Malfoy bearing down on the school to avenge his wounded son. Alastor was in enough trouble with the Ministry already. 

He was still in the hospital wing when she went to see him. Poppy, at the door, told her that he really didn't need to stay overnight for observation, but he didn't seem to want to go, not yet. 

None of his classmates were there, Minerva noticed, just as none of his gang ever stepped in to defend him, and with the exception of Parkinson none of them ever spoke up for him either. When Malfoy was strong, he was their leader, but when he was weak, he was on his own. A boy, even a boy like Draco Malfoy, deserved better friends than that--although Minerva had to admit that he might have better friends than that if he treated them like friends, and not servants. 

"I wanted to make sure you were unharmed," she told him brusquely. He was leaning back again the headboard and, much to her surprise, doing homework. 

"I suppose I am," he drawled, not quite meeting her eye. "No thanks to that ass of a professor. His aim and wand control are appalling, no wonder the Aurors made him retire. I'm lucky he didn't snap my spine."

Minerva wanted to tell him to not be so dramatic, but he was right. There were enough risks involved in animal-human transfiguration without tossing the subject through the air and onto a hard stone floor, repeatedly. "He shouldn't have done that," she said. "And you can be sure he won't do it again."

"Oh," said Malfoy, "I can be sure, can I?"

Minerva had been teaching teenagers for nearly forty years. Sometimes she was tempted to remind him of that, and that he thought he might be obnoxious, but he barely compared to a Sirius or Andromeda Black on their best, or rather worst, days. "I'll say something to the Headmaster--"

He let out a bark of laughter. "Dumbledore? Dumbledore isn't going to do anything for me."

"Do not interrupt me when I am speaking," she said, maybe a bit sharper than intended, because she had spoken to Albus about the boy's Boggart, his unhealthy obsession with the Chamber of Secrets, and her fear that another dangerous, destructive animosity was brewing between Malfoy and Potter and Potter's friends, and Albus had dismissed her concerns. And it wasn't good for the students to feel as though the school wasn't concerned about their safety--and if Malfoy had picked up on it, she could only imagine how more perceptive and sensitive Slytherins felt. 

"He won't," said Malfoy, sulkily. 

She frowned. "Would you like to accompany me when I address the issue?"

"I--" Malfoy looked at her suspiciously, like he couldn't really believe the Head of Gryffindor might speak for him, or was offering him the opportunity to be there when she did. "I guess."

"Good," she said. "We'll go after class tomorrow--which you are not getting out of," she said. "You're under observation, not healing a cracked skull."

He was oddly quiet in class the next day. Goyle kept looking over at him like something was wrong, until Malfoy showed him the piece of parchment he was doodling on, and Goyle guffawed. (Minerva went by later and glanced over his shoulder: in the drawing, Alastor was falling down a flight of stairs, his eye flying out and his leg falling off. Children.) He didn't make much of it when he stayed behind either: she supposed that after last year and all his bragging, he wouldn't want to face his gang if nothing happened to Alastor Moody. It wasn't quite the lesson she wished he'd learned from trying to get Hagrid fired, but at least he was learning. 

He followed her to the gargoyles in silence, and she was aware of how keenly he was listening when she gave them the password. She'd have to tell Albus to change it later. 

He wasn't there yet, and while she knew he was busy, especially with the Triwizard Tournament, she felt a flash of annoyance because she had forewarned him. She went over to the door to his chambers, to knock, and when she turned around again Draco had picked up one of the silver instruments from Albus's desk and was examining it, just as Albus entered silently behind him. 

"Ah, Minerva," he said. "And young master Malfoy. I see you've taken an interest in my decorations."

Malfoy, to his credit, did not drop the instrument. His eyes narrowed and he turned around and asked, almost politely, "What does it do?"

"A question," said Albus, taking it from Malfoy's hands, "that perhaps you ought to have asked yourself before picking it up." Malfoy yanked his hands back and examined them, not very surreptitiously.

Albus chuckled. "I wouldn't worry. That one is harmless."

Fawkes let out a low note, and Malfoy glanced at him, just as the bird sidled from Albus's shoulder to his, and then to his perch. 

Only someone who knew him well would have been able to tell, but Minerva could see that for a second Albus was nonplussed. 

"That's a phoenix," said Malfoy. Fawkes inclined his head towards him, and he reached out to stroke him like one would an owl. Fawkes squawked happily. "I've heard they shed horribly."

"Oh," said Albus lightly, "the feathers are rarely a problem. It's the ashes one has to worry about."

Malfoy glanced back at him, hearing the tension in his tone, and stepped away from Fawkes as if remembering suddenly that it was not only someone else's phoenix, but one that belonged to Albus Dumbledore, of all wizards. 

Minerva cleared her throat. "Albus, i was hoping we could speak with you about Alastor's behavior yesterday."

"What behavior?" asked Albus, settling himself into the chair behind his desk. 

"You're joking, right?" Malfoy turned his head to look at Minerva. "You must be joking, you're supposed to be running the school, and you don't even know--"

"I thought it would be useful to hear your version of events," said Albus. He made a steeple of his fingers. "I have, of course, heard a great deal about your adventures as a ferret, but such tales do grow in the telling."

Malfoy flushed a little, clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. "I didn't attack when Potter's back was turned," he said. "I pulled out my wand before he turned away from me. Anyone with half a brain and one normal eye could have seen that, and Moody's supposed to be an Auror with all sorts of charms on that hideous blue thing. He punished me not for what I did but because he doesn't like my family, and he used a punishment that you're not supposed to, in this school."

Albus returned the boy's gaze. "Alastor is rather new to teaching, I'm afraid you'll have to forgive--"

Malfoy pulled a roll of parchment from one sleeve and threw it at Albus. "Those are the regulations governing Auror conduct. They're a bit stricter about human-animal Transfiguration than whatever passes for rules at your school here."

Minerva felt impressed despite herself, and then remembered he'd written a paper on it last year. Well--at least he was retaining information. 

"Yes," said Albus, baldly, "but there are no Ministry regulations governing Hogwarts. It is run at the discretion of the Headmaster and the Board of Directors." Left unsaid but unheard was that Lucius Malfoy no longer had a seat on the board of directors, which Minerva thought was something of a low blow. Malfoy had not, to her knowledge, involved his parents in this, and Albus could have done the boy the courtesy of doing the same. He hardly needed to, to win. The boy was nowhere near as indefatigable as Granger. 

And indeed Malfoy pulled away, sneering. "I told you he wouldn't do anything," he told Minerva, and she had half a mind to reprimand him for speaking to them both like that, and almost wished she had when he turned to Dumbledore. "After all, Moody's one of his mates, and we all know it takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but even more courage to stand up to our friends."

She could see the effect it had on Albus, though she doubted Malfoy could. He sat a little straighter in his seat, and said, almost too calmly, "You remembered that?"

"Yes," Malfoy said snidely, "did you?"

Albus stared at Malfoy for a second. "Your detention is canceled, and I will speak to Alastor."

"You should fire him," Malfoy muttered. Or hexed his mouth shut. That would have worked too, and it was an approved punishment for Hogwarts students, provided it was easily reversed by a mediwitch and lasted no more than two hours. 

The corners of Albus's mouth twitched upwards. "I would not test your luck, Mr Malfoy," he said, in a tone that she could have told him would only encourage the very opposite. 

-

Fifth year, Minerva feared, she didn't pay as much attention to her students as she should have. In the beginning she didn't even have Umbridge as an excuse, just the workings of the Order, and the memories of the last war crowding in on her, and the ghost of a boy she'd known decades ago, but not well--no one, she supposed had known him well. 

She'd been a year above him, and in Gryffindor, so she hadn't seen much of him, except at prefects' meetings, and rather more frequently in the library, especially those first years. She'd never said anything to the quiet first-, then second-, then third-, and so on, -year boy, and he hadn't to her: they'd nod in recognition, and need no further interaction. She knew he wasn't always reading up on homework, but then neither was she. Minerva was generally about as solitary as her Animagus form, and besides, the librarians would have chased them out if they'd made any noise. She'd known him on sight years before she knew his name--he wasn't a troublemaker where anyone could see, didn't draw attention to himself where anyone could see. She saw shadows of that boy everywhere that year, and found herself marveling, as she had during the first war, that he had been under their noses all along. He'd been among them, pale and studious and one afternoon, when her bottle ran dry in the library, offering her his own spare ink. She'd been Head Girl then, and cramming for her NEWTs, and she'd said, "Thank you, Tom," and never imagined how many people those same hands would kill, how many people would see that same smile before they died. 

She thought of him, and of the Death Eaters--the children they'd been, Barry Crouch who'd been so proud of his NEWT in Charms, and a few years later helped torture Alice and Frank Longbottom into insanity. Regulus Black, who once tried to sneak into the Gryffindor common room to speak to Sirius. Bellatrix, forever looking out for her younger sisters. Avery, who'd been the bane of several Gryffindor (and Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw) Keepers' existence. Lucius, who had been so perfectly polite and well-behaved--not like his son at all--and good with the younger Slytherins. 

She thought of them, and tried not to look at her current students and imagine in five years' time Crabbe and Goyle would be in Azkaban, Bulstrode would have become proficient in poisons, Greengrass would have cast the Cruciatus curse time after time, Nott would have a Dark Mark, and Malfoy.... 

Malfoy must have been more perceptive than she gave him credit for, because he stopped asking her about advanced Transfiguration topics, stopped borrowing her journals (and he could afford his own, she knew), stopped making an effort, and she didn't realize this until the disastrous Quidditch match in November, when he was being pummeled by Harry Potter and George Weasley. 

She wanted to shout at them, there in her office, that this was why they were not allowed in the Order, if they could be provoked that easily, if they let down their guard that easily. Because when she looked at her Gryffindor students, she thought of all those she'd taught twenty, thirty, forty years ago, and how they'd died. 

But of course Umbridge was there, so she could not, and so afterwards she went fuming to Severus, perhaps the only other teacher who loathed Umbridge as much as she did and was willing to complain about her endlessly, and they spent a few hours and a bottle of wine complaining about Ministry interference, and he only gloated a little about her team losing its Seeker and its Beaters. 

As she headed back up to her office, it struck her that she should have given Severus her condolences about Malfoy, or asked after the boy. But he would have mentioned it if the boy were seriously injured, and Minerva knew what Poppy would say about being drunk in front of the students, who were not too bright but far too impressionable. So she did not see Malfoy then, or later, and did not feel particularly bad about it until she woke up in St. Mungo's and among the cards was a tin of Ginger Newts with her name on it. It was unsigned, but Malfoy had been in her classes for five years and had distinctive handwriting, especially for a teenage boy. It resembled his mother's, but not quite, and Narcissa Malfoy was hardly likely to be sending her biscuits. 

She never would have expected it. She sent a note thanking him but also unsigned, knowing it would be read by Filch, or another member of the Inquisitorial Squad, and wondered, as she munched on a biscuit (he'd gotten the ones with extra ginger), if, in the end, it would change anything. 

-

"I'm worried about Draco Malfoy," she said. 

Albus looked at her over the top of his glasses and continued to scribble away at the parchment before him, a list instead of a letter, as far as she could see. He was busy, she knew, with the war, and not at Hogwarts a good half of the time, but he could at least pretend to be listening . "I'm sure he'll be fine. The Malfoys always are in the end, regardless of what happens to everyone else."

"This isn't the end," she said, "and it is certainly not fine now. For God's sake, Albus, his father is in prison."

"Oh, I doubt he'll be there long. And at least he had the good fortune of landing there after the Dementors left."

"I don't imagine that's as much of a consolation to a boy who's lost his father as you think it is," she said. It was lucky Malfoy himself wasn't here to hear it. 

Albus picked up another sweet. The contrast between the colored paper and his blackened, burnt-looking hand was almost painful to look at, and he still wouldn't tell her what had happened. "Minerva, it's Severus's responsibility to--"

"Severus is young too," she said. "Sometimes, because of the war, I think we forget how young. Malfoy will assure him he's fine and that will be the end of that."

Albus paused, the sweet unwrapped in the palm of his ruined hand. "Has he told you he's fine?"

"Yes," she said. "He was lying. And I know because, as I said, his father is in Azkaban and I do have eyes in my head, Albus." He wouldn't say anything to Severus, because Severus wouldn't delve very deep, and he wouldn't say anything to Minerva because she was head of Gryffindor, and part of the group that had sent his father to jail, and he might not say anything to anyone at all, because as proud a wizard as Lucius Malfoy was, Narcissa Black had been twice as proud when she was at school, cool and straight-backed and refusing to acknowledge rumors about her family, whether they were about her aunt's madness or her cousin's misbehavior or her own legitimacy. She was not a witch who would have taught her son to unburden himself easily, and especially not to someone on the opposite side of the war. 

Albus brought the ruined hand to his lips. "I'll ask Severus to keep an eye on him," he said, as he did every year, and he probably did, but it wasn't Severus Malfoy kept ending up in detention with, it wasn't Severus whose class he suddenly began to have trouble with--and it wasn't even a case of Malfoy slipping below the level Minerva expected of him, it was outright not turning in his homework, and in December she caught him sleeping in her class. She stopped herself from calling him on it just in time: the shadows under his eyes kept growing darker, he seemed to have lost weight he could ill afford to lose, and she took him aside after that class and asked him if he might want to visit Madam Pomfrey, as he seemed to be coming down with something. 

He stared at her for a second, then shook his head. "It's all right," he said, his voice hoarse. "I know what it is. It'll all be over soon."

-

When Malfoy returned seventh year, he almost did so as a ghost. Sixth year he'd been increasingly withdrawn and exhausted and anxious, but he'd still managed a few sneers, some lashing out, some show of bravado, and now that was all gone. He kept his head down, turned his homework in on time, didn't speak unless spoken to. Frequently he seemed to be elsewhere. 

He was a silent, colorless boy, and Minerva wasn't the only one who couldn't bring herself to be angry at him for what he'd done. Pomona said she found him wandering the school at night and couldn't bear to take points from him, or send him back to Slytherin house. Not all the Slytherins were overjoyed about the takeover of Hogwarts and the fall of the Ministry, but those who weren't gloating tried to carry on as normal, and there was nothing normal about Draco. The Hogwarts professors could see the looks and hear the mutters, and most of them reacted as they would with any student ostracized by his peers, with the exception of Horace, who seemed terrified of the boy in a manner Minerva found almost comical--only almost because it wasn't really Draco he was scared of, it was the wizard who'd burned his mark into Draco, and burned who knew what out of him.

Not long after returning from Christmas holidays, he fainted. The younger Greengrass girl found him, and levitated him to the hospital wing, where Poppy recommended sleeping draughts and actually eating his meals. After Easter holiday, he comes back with bruises, fingermarks where someone had gripped him too tight, Minerva thought, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and an indigo smudge right below one cheekbone. 

She'd barely been able to talk to Severus since Harry had said he'd killed Dumbledore, but she made the attempt now, and it was no more successful than the last time she'd tried to discuss Draco Malfoy with the headmaster of Hogwarts. "You should see the other residents of Malfoy Manor," said Severus coolly. "Draco wasn't punished for their failure at all. He only had to watch."

She stared at him. 

"He made his choice, Minerva," Severus said, the indifference suddenly gone from his voice, and he sounded as resentful and angry as he had when a boy himself. "He made his choice, and he has to live with it, instead of expecting that adults will keep cleaning up his messes and fixing his mistakes."

She nearly hexed him for that. Odd, how she could nearly stomach the fact he was a Death Eater, but his being so careless with a student's health put her into a towering temper. 

A night or two after that Minerva was patrolling the corridors unasked--well, she was more of a counter patrol, snapping at students to get back to bed before someone worse found them. She found Malfoy on her rounds frequently but never bothered to tell him off: he might not be respected by the other Slytherins, but they left him alone, clearly not sure where he stood in the new hierarchy.

He was alone. Goyle seemed to trail after him during the school day, more out of reflex than anything else, and Crabbe lurked alongside, but when she came across him on patrols he was by himself, staring out a window, or sleeping next to a tapestry, or walking with no obvious destination. 

That night he was in one of the classrooms. He had a book with him--she was surprised by that--but she wasn't too sure how much he was reading it, or if it had been serving as his pillow. His hair was disheveled and his eyes weren't entirely there. 

"Professor," he said, and the sound of his voice seemed to surprise them both. 

"Malfoy," she said. None of this was normal, but for a second she thought it might be salvaged, that they might be able to discuss Transfiguration and avoid all the other subjects that were trickier after all. "What is it that you're reading, this late at--"

And then she recognized the book. He was hardly the only student to have a copy, although most, she thought, didn't actually take the time to read the book, whereas his had seen some use, was a little battered and dog-eared, and looked like it fell open easily. Right now it was at the photograph of the two boys, a young Albus and the alleged Gellert Grindelwald, both beaming and waving, and Draco's hand on the page nearly touched Albus's ridiculous teenage beard. 

Minerva put her own hand on the page, covering up their faces. Was this what he was doing? Reading over and over again about the life he'd nearly snuffed out, the man he'd been sent to kill? A sick sort of penance, with the studiousness and dedication she'd long tried to inspire in him, and now that he was demonstrating it she wished he wouldn't. "Don't," she said. 

He lifted his gaze from the book and met hers--then broke eye contact. "Why not?" he asked, and that was the closest to the boy he'd been before all year. _Why not, why shouldn't I do this ill-advised thing?_ She did not think his father would hear of this. 

"Because all you're doing is torturing yourself," she said, and slid the book out from under his hand and slapped it shut. "Madam Pomfrey will let you sleep in the hospital wing, if you ask her."

"I don't need to sleep in the hospital wing," he said, and reached for the book. 

She sighed. "Well, if you insist. And I don't know why you bother with this book, Draco," but handed it back anyway. "It's all a pack of lies."

She'd said it to so many Gryffindor students by now, and it was always the right thing then, that she could say it with conviction even though she knew parts of it were at least half-true. But the students needed to hear that none of it was, and she was quite angry enough at Rita Skeeter that the lie wasn't a particularly tough one to tell. 

Only Draco had to be different in this as well. Did he take comfort in Albus's mistakes, or was it that he believed he had grown to know the man, only to be told he was someone completely different after all? Minerva nearly corrected herself, nearly admitted that Albus had always been a very private person, so who was she to say, but he was already taking the book back and tucking it against his side, and all the time staring at the ashes in the fireplace, his face white except for that bruise. "Thanks, Professor," he said, hollowly. "Guess I'd better get back to Slytherin House."


End file.
